The wind tore at the edges of the downy shroud which encased her still chilled body and caused her to instinctively draw in a sharp breath which turned her lungs to ice. She stood motionless and gazed unseeing into the night. This was madness. Why should she run yet again from this -mere man. She was after all, Rambi, daughter of the dawn, sibyl of the stars, a muse made of mist and magic. And submissive to no man save one, who, although he had chosen his solitary, nomadic existence, still held her heart in his gnarled, dusty hands. To retreat yet again from this young, though admittedly virile and slightly oleaginous, warrior was intolerable. What had possessed her? A tear, like a small diamond of regret, froze on her cheek. She knew, oh, she knew; and it was time to confront the ugly, painful truth. The decadent, lazy, laughter-filled world of DARia had seduced her, turned her thoughts from the pure, sharp verity in which she had lived, and reduced her to a caricature of herself, a myrmidon to her own mythology. She shuddered in abhorrance at what she had been about to do. Even if he was to be her nemesis, it was inconceivable that she would not turn and meet this predatory pretender, directly, defiantly, herself again, avatar of her own peculiar brand of justice. She drew her shoulders back, turned from the hyperborean landscape and re-entered the longhouse. Flinging aside the frost-webbed cape, she
stood erect and proud, the firelight gleaming off her slim thong-clad body and gazed down at the Mysterious Warrior with No Name. Who was he, this tritonic person who so boldly and tirelessly pursued her? From what strange place had he emerged? When he woke, she would have her answers. And he would have his confrontation. |
